


Give Me What I Want

by swampthot



Category: Hotel Artemis (2018)
Genre: Aftercare, Biting, Bondage, Choking, Face Slapping, Fingering, Hair-pulling, Knifeplay, Oral Sex, Other, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 19:30:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14362086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swampthot/pseuds/swampthot
Summary: This is blatant self-insert Acapulco smut fanservice and you literally know exactly what you're getting.





	Give Me What I Want

As you press the button on your keys and hear the muted beep of your car horn, you feel strong arms wind around you and a rag pressed to your face.

Immediately, you try to struggle and scream, but you feel dizzy and nauseous and you smell an overpowering stench of something sweet and ethanol-esque… Is that chloroform? You think as you begin to slump to the floor of the parking garage and the room blurs. The last thing you hear is a high-pitched, hoarse chuckle.

 

You awake in some sort of concrete room; it smells vaguely of bleach and there’s no natural light, just a flickering bare bulb suspended from the ceiling on a chain. There’s a large metal door. Closed. Sealed.

As you begin to come back to yourself, you are aware that not only are your hands tied behind our back and your ankles bound to the legs of the heavy metal chair you are sitting on, your shirt is… Soaked. Your face and hair, too. You’re shivering, just barely.

Out of the corner of your eye you catch movement and you nearly start screaming. A man is standing in the corner, a shorter man with painstakingly styled yet seemingly effortlessly wavy hair. That’s all you can see of him besides his dark pattern-printed suit-he’s standing with his back to you. And in his right hand he’s holding…

He’s holding a miniature baseball bat. He turns around slowly, and you’re not prepared for what you see. He doesn’t have a face like a mob boss or a criminal. He has soft bone structure, a round nose, a face you might call endearing under different circumstances. His eyes are delicately lashed and the most startling shade of green you’ve ever seen in your life. But the most striking thing about the man is his mustache. It’s understated, dark, well-maintained, and prim. It sharpens his round face and adds an edge of severity to the small man. It makes his face look… Menacing.

You’re shivering now, and you tell yourself it’s from the cold. Or from fear.

“You’re finally awake.” When he finally speaks, you are utterly unprepared for what you hear. His voice is higher than you imagined, seemingly on the edge of cracking but so completely composed. It’s hoarse, too, just a tad. You glance briefly at the bucket of water on the floor he must have used to try to revive you. Oh.

“What are you-” you cut yourself off as a cough forces its way out of your lungs. Maybe from the fucking chemicals you inhaled earlier.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he says, smirking as he paces toward you. Everything out of this entire charade is such a cliche, but he looks as if he knows that, and not only does he know it, he enjoys it very much.

“I am Acapulco,” he says briskly. “Now, only my mother calls me that,” he says as he pauses to wink, “And my friends call me A, but sweetie, you can call me whatever you want.”

You feel frustration start to rise in you-from the lack of answers to your questions, you tell yourself-and wiggle helplessly against your bonds.

The man, A or whatever, is still smirking at you as he pulls a pack of cigarettes from inside his ridiculous suit jacket. He taps one out of the package and lights it, inhaling deeply as a nearly orgasmic expression of pleasure spreads across his face. All you can do is stare briefly, and then your gaze swings away as you are briefly possessed by another coughing fit.

“Oh! How rude of me!” He exclaims squeakily, in his falsely light, airy tone. “Would you like a cigarette?” He’s still smiling.

You attempt your best withering scowl. “Why am I tied up?”

He takes one long drag of the cigarette between his two fingers. He lets the smoke waft lazily out of his mouth, not blowing it out, just rolling his tongue like he was tasting the air. “Yknow, I would’ve pegged you as. Well. Someone much smarter than what I’m seeing right here. Why am I tied up? Are you being serious right now?”

“I-” You try your best to make yourself sound nonthreatening. “I don’t-”

A slaps you cleanly across the face, stunning you into silence. “Shut the fuck up,” he says calmly. “You know where my shipment is. You and your pathetic-” slap. “Little-” slap. “Fucking insurgency team.”

Your cheeks are bright red and puffy, and they’re tingling. It’s more the shock of the pain than the pain itself, and you feel like you’ve finally emerged from your drugged haze.

You feel alive. Excited. New.

You look up from the floor directly into Acapulco’s piercing eyes, and you feel a charge coursing through you, of strength or something entirely different. “Maybe I do.”

He bends down, so that his face is directly next to you. “Maybe?” he whispers. “Oh, you maybe know where it is?”

You just stare, challenging him.

“Not good enough!” he screeches, bringing down his baseball bat suddenly on the back of your chair, inches from your shoulder, with enough force to crack the bat cleanly down the middle. He drops it and forces a smile, flexing his fingers. “Look,” he begins, and then stops. “Okay. we can do this the easy way or- Oh, that’s such a cliche. We’re currently doing it the easy way. I don’t even plan on coming close to doing this the hard way-” He then takes the cigarette he is holding on to and, so swiftly you didn’t even anticipate it, puts it out on your hand. You hiss, and tears roll down your face, but you are trying so hard not to give him the satisfaction of saying anything. He drops his cigarette on the floor and raises his eyebrows.

“Try me.” The words come out of your mouth of their own accord, and admittedly, you are not understanding your body’s actions. By all accounts you should be scared for your life, but all you want is to see how far you can push him. You have some morbid fascination for what he might do with you. To you.

He casually slings off his jacket, like he’s undressing after a hard day at work and not preparing to torture someone within an inch of their life, rolls up his sleeves primly, and throws a perfectly calculated right hook.

You moan, startled, and you see stars budding behind your closed eyes. You feel your jaw throbbing as blood trickles from your split lip.

“How’s that cool guy act working for you now, huh?” you hear dimly. You can’t say anything in response, only try to stop the room from spinning. His fist connects with your stomach next, and all the air wheezes out of your lungs. One more punch leaves a throbbing red welt on your temple.

For an indefinite amount of time, you feel suspended in space, only connected to your body through the pain.

“I am gonna ask you again.” Still so calm. Still so much anger roiling barely beneath the surface. As your vision clears and you regain your bearings, you see him still looking impassively, yet intently at you. You’re just another item on his to-do list.

It intrigues you.

“What did you do with my shit,” he hisses.

You only shake your head. In return he slaps you across the face. You moan, startled. Then he does something that surprised you.

He looks at you intently before he hits you again, as if gauging your reaction. He slaps you again. Again you moan.

“Ah,” he says, strangely softly. “I see.”

“Unh.” You can’t really ask him what he means so much as just attempt to let the strangled noise move past your lips.

Abruptly, he seizes a fistful of your hair. “Are you actually enjoying this?” he whispers, directly in your ear. Your shiver has nothing to do with the cold. “Oh my god,” he says at full volume. “You are.” He laughs that chilling, high-pitched chuckle that set you so on edge before (admittedly, in what way, you couldn’t say).

You say nothing, trying to preserve your dignity, a laughable concept, true, but still your only hope. His smile, the evil smile spreading across his face, the one that never leaves, is growing ever wider. “Maybe,” he continues, placing a hand on your shoulder and leaning in, “maybe we can help each other,” his voice softens here, and he bites your earlobe, provoking some sort of high-pitched noise from you, “find a way out of this situation.”

For a second there is nothing in the air but your bated breath and his, lingering on your neck, and then he has swiftly captured your mouth with his. He’s sucking, pulling at your bottom lip, biting down hard exactly where he hit you hard enough to draw blood before, and fuck if he isn’t incredible at this. You have no choice but to let your body respond automatically in kind. Feeling his mustache drag across your upper lip, certainly giving you beard burn. It only further infuriates you.

He breaks away abruptly, and you can’t help but chase after his lips after they leave yours. He holds you back and stares into your eyes. Still so calculating. “Yeah,” he breathes hoarsely. “Yeah. Let’s have some fun,” and God help you, your wrists are still straining against the ropes to try to pull him in closer.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, so close to you that you can feel his breath on your lips. “You’re so fucking eager. You know, not everybody acts like such a little slut when they’re being interrogated.” You whimper for a second; like, you can’t deny the truth of what he’s saying, but there’s something so mesmerizing about the guy. It’s like you’ve fallen under a spell, like in a stupid fairy tale. All you want is more.

He fists both hands in your still-wet hair suddenly, and yanks your head back to expose your neck. More chills run up and down your spine as he trails uncharacteristically soft kisses down the side of your neck, and then suddenly, without warning, bites down hard on the sensitive skin right next to your collarbone. You flinch in shock, and in doing so reflexively cringe closer to him. His hands are still in your hair-your hair has always been a little sensitive, and right now is no exception. Everything that’s happening is taking your breath away.

He pulls away and takes a second (again) to study the way you look, and evidently he decides he hasn’t teased you nearly enough because his hands slide slowly down from where they were entangled in your hair and rest at the base of your collarbones. Almost sweetly he presses down on your jugular with his two thumbs; you begin getting dizzy almost immediately, and choked moans force their way out of your throat.

All of a sudden the hands leave. You can breathe again, but he’s still slightly blurry in your line of sight. Still grinning like the cat that ate the canary, he warbles in his high voice, “You’re turning such a lovely shade of red. If I didn’t already know you were such a desperate horny slut, I’d tell you.” He presses a kiss to your jaw, right where he left the massive, rapidly bruising red welt. “I’d tell you how pretty you are.”

“Please,” you say. The word leaves your mouth almost without your brain’s permission, and his lips freeze on their journey up your jawline. You have no idea what you’re begging for. Please let me go? Please don’t stop?

“Mhm.” He smiles against your neck. In between soft kisses and cruel bites, he says, “You beg so pretty too. I was going to gag you for this. Now I don’t think so.” He-Jesus Christ-he fucking straddles you and swiftly recaptures your lips with his own: kissing you deep, long and hard, so hard you feel your lips might bruise with the intensity. You’re almost certain he can taste the blood from the split lip he gave you. His mustache is scraping against your lips and every time it brushes against you you feel the tingles of it shoot all the way through you. 

But he doesn’t expect it at all when you begin to give as good as you get. You’re matching his fervor, moaning into his mouth and shifting, almost gyrating into his smaller body. You want to mess that mustache up from its perfectly groomed state.

And then he breaks the kiss. You let out a small, frustrated noise, almost a whine.

He laughs-no, giggles evilly. “Be patient, bitch. God.” He reaches down to his ankle and pulls out the most strangely feminine knife you’ve ever seen-god, there are layers to this A guy, and your eyes widen in almost comic alarm before he slices through the bonds on your wrists. Your hands are still bound together, but no longer to the chair. Even when you think you’re getting somewhere with him, there’s always something holding you back.

He drops his knife on the ground, then licks his lips and crosses his arms. “Like I said. You do such pretty begging. I know exactly what you want. You’re gonna have to convince me to get it.”

“Please,” you moan again. Your hands, bound in front of you, strain against the ropes.

He shakes his head. “Not good enough,” he trills in an almost singsong lilt. “I want you to tell me exactly what you want.”

“Untie me,” you say, even though the mere thought of it makes you unconsciously deflate.

“Nope,” he says, grinning. “Try again.” His open top button is driving you absolutely insane. His eyes are dancing with glee. He’s so impish.

“Just touch me,” you breathe. “Fuck.”

“And?” You want to scream.

“Choke me,” you say. “Use me.”

“And then what?” What in God’s name does he want?

“I want to feel you.”

He smirks, drops to the ground, unbuttons your jeans, and takes you in his mouth. You take your bound hands and fist them in his hair, pulling roughly as he laps and lathes at you with his tongue. Jesus Christ. 

You don’t even try to stifle your moans: they roll out of you of their own accord. A few seconds of this, of A doing criminal things with his tongue and sucking like his life depends on it, moaning into you like he was the one being given the most incredible head, possibly ever, and you feel yourself shaking. Like a leaf.

When you’re closest to the edge, he pulls off, and you could almost scream in frustration. Your hands slide out of his hair as he pulls away. Businesslike, he reaches for the knife where he left it on the ground and cuts away the ropes binding your ankles. You swallow nervously as he trails the knife delicately up the side of your pant leg and then slices through the waist of your pants.

He pulls them off smoothly, not even encumbered by the fact that you’re sitting down, and begin trailing kisses up your inner thighs. Well, and bites, and marks, and hickeys- Jesus, he’s so close to where you need him to be. You card your hands through his hair again, still shaking.

“You see,” he says, pausing briefly to nip at you and then mouth almost apologetically against the mark, “I needed to make sure you weren’t gonna run away before I could untie you. And you would never dream of it now, would you?” He whispers this last part. You feel it against your thighs, reverberating through your whole body. He’s not your captor anymore. He’s your lifeline.

You shock yourself by being able to speak. “What about my hands?”

“Hmm.” He presses a kiss and it’s so, so close to where you want him. You gasp. “What about ‘em?”

“Aren’t- Ah- Aren’t you gonna untie them?”

He pauses his lips on their slow and painstaking journey. “No.”

Your hands clench in his hair as he resumes, and it’s even better the second time around. He’s less teasing, he’s sucking so deeply, he’s reducing you completely to a babbling mess. His mustache rubs against you, and the friction is at once painful and painfully erotic. You say his name, Acapulco, never his full name, because you have to keep interrupting yourself to pant and scream and whine.

And then he pulls away again, and you could cry, he has you so worked up. “Please,” you say breathlessly. Again. As if it’s the only word in your vocabulary. He stands up.

“No, sweetie. I think I want to change things up a little.” You see tears pricking the corner of his eyes, from spending so long with his mouth on you no doubt, and you see… some of you on his mustache. In a way, even though he has full control over you, in a way, he looks just as wrecked as you do.

You glance at his obviously tented pants, and you feel embarrassed for how much more turned-on it makes you. And of course a perceptive man like Acapulco notices.

“That’s what you want, huh?” If maybe a bit of saliva rolls out of the corner of your mouth, he has the decency not to say anything. He unbuckles his belt.

He’s so short that you have to slide from your chair and drop to your knees. With trembling fingers you unbutton his pants and pull them down; it takes ridiculously long for you to do, with your bound hands, and he half-lids his eyes and seizes your hair like he’s even more turned on by your ineptitude.

His cock is, to be blunt, easily the biggest you’ve seen in your limited experience, and you feel just slightly apprehensive about trying to fit that whole thing in your mouth. Or your body, for that matter.

“Come on,” he says sharply, impatiently, like he’s got other people to beat up and then fuck the shit out of. You take him down your throat. You try that breathing-through-your-nose thing, and then almost immediately choke. Tears are running down your face. He leisurely thrusts deeper into your mouth.

“There you go,” he whispers. His voice is softer. “You really do look so pretty like this, slut. Just like I imagined. You wanted this a long time, didn’t you?”

You moan around his dick and pull off of it a few inches, gathering your bearings and trying not to gag again. You suck and lick the best you can, jerking him off with your bound hands where you can’t. You moan around his dick, and he trembles. He’s making little noises now, almost submissive ones, alternately stroking through your hair and pulling it, his dominant persona fading as he nears the edge. Then he yanks you off his dick by your hair, holding you with your head bent back and your neck exposed, and squeezes the base of his dick.

“We don’t wanna spoil dessert, baby,” he says, his high voice going slightly lower. You take deep breaths to make up for the previous abuse of your throat and stare at him. You want him so bad, you’re throbbing.  
He grips both of your wrists with his hands and drags you up to sit on the chair. He takes the collar of your shirt, where it had been torn in the struggle, and roughly tears it off of you. He lets go of your wrists, and with shaking fingers you tear open the next button of his collar and a button pops off with a rip (and you can’t help but marvel at the fact that, even though your mouth was on his dick ten seconds ago, you feel like if you go another second without seeing his bare chest, you’ll burst into flames). He roughly seizes your wrist and squeezes it hard enough to bruise.

“You stupid bitch,” he seethes. “This shirt cost more than your worthless life.” You swallow and begin to unbutton the other buttons, painfully slowly. Your fingers are still shaking. Your ropes seem to be getting tighter on your hands by the second.

“Better, baby,” he breathes softly, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. He straddles you again, sitting right on your lap, torturously close but still not close enough. You feel determined not to give in and begin begging again, so you reach up and trace your fingers over the scar that cuts across the left side of his face.

Immediately his expression hardens. He snatches away your hand and twists. Hard.

“Fuck,” you whisper. The pain is less intense than merely startling, but you’re so caught off guard.

“We’re not gonna make any tender memories here, doll.” His voice is calm, controlled, evenly high-pitched again. “You’re here to give me what I want. If you give me what I want, exactly how I want, I might decide to fuck you, since you seem to want it so bad.” You shift slightly in your chair, stunned, staring into the magnetic green of his eyes.

“Or maybe,” he continues, voice dropping to nearly a whisper, “maybe I’ll just bring you back to the edge. Over and over and over. Maybe I’ll do it so many times you’ll be sobbing and begging me to just let you cum. And I’ll leave you here.” You let out a long whine and rut up against him, almost crazed by his words.

“Oh,” he says breathily. “So this is what gets you off?” He rolls his hips in your lap, driving you even crazier. “You like the bad boys, huh?”

Before you can react he takes two fingers and thrusts them inside of you, filling you up as you choke on a sob from the relief of feeling something in you. He crooks his fingers and hits that spot, over and over again, rubbing over it gently but intently, and you nearly cum again before he pulls out of you. He licks his fingers slowly as you watch in awe and maybe whine a little. You’re not sure. All your nerve endings are on fire.

“I’ll do whatever,” you say breathlessly, “whatever you want.”

He leans forward and grips the sides of the chair. “You know what I want,” he says. “Tell me where you put my shit.” His surprisingly muscular arms have made a sort of steel cage, and completing the trap are his thighs, soft and muscular at the same time. You thrust up into him and against his cock jerkily, trying desperately to get some friction from it, but he’s pinning you down so very effectively.

You brush your fingertips up the length of his body and whisper the location in his ear. He smiles slightly and leans back, saying nothing.

You lock eyes with him and your mind starts racing as you begin to formulate a plan (kind of). Your hands slide up his chest, in a very cliche’d seductive way, and your palms rest against his chest.

He smiles, thinking he’s got you right where he wants you, trying to contain him in some kind of sappy embrace, and then you abruptly grab hold of the loose part of the rope binding your hands together and press it against his jugular.

His eyes widen before rolling back into his head, almost orgasmically, and he lets out a long, low, choking moan. You pull him closer to you by his neck and whisper in his ear. “Now I have you right where I want you. And now you’re going to fuck me.” You grind up against him to prove your point, rolling your hips almost torturously slowly, and then you let him loose just enough to gasp for air. Gone is the mask of contempt and nonchalance from his face, and he just looks utterly wrecked.

You roughly shove him off of you and stand next to him, still manhandling him entirely by his windpipe. He’s completely compliant, even though, with his muscular arms, he could probably put up a real fight.

You wonder if this isn’t what he wanted all along.

You shove him roughly into the chair and crawl into his lap, essentially a reverse of your precious position. He shifts and writhes against you, trying to gain some friction; and really it makes sense that he would be as desperate as you are by this point. He’s been eating you out with barely anything in return for so long. You shift your weight so that you’re resting your thighs on top of his, and slowly, feeling the stretch, you ease yourself down onto his dick. His eyes squeeze shut. He’s trembling like he’s barely holding it together. His hands clench in your hair.

“Move,” he spits. “Bitch.”

“How much do you want it?” You ask saccharinely, looking down at him through your eyelashes.

He wrenches your head back by your hair, but after a second, and some labored breathing, you hear, “So bad, baby, make me feel good.”

You roll your hips slightly. He lets his fingers relax a little in your hair, enough for you to glance back down at him, still waiting.

“Please,” he almost whines.

You lift yourself up ever so slightly and rock back down on him. Hearing the loud, high-pitched moan he makes, you do it again, and again, picking up speed, fucking yourself down on his cock over and over. The combination of your own desire and gravity is fucking you deeper than you ever thought possible, and with every thrust he’s hitting you in exactly the right spot. He’s trying to move up to meet you, too, but he’s too far gone to manage much more than a few shallow thrusts upwards, and your thighs pinning him down are making it almost impossible for him to move. You’ve got him trapped.

You speed up, so impossibly close to the edge, gasping and shuddering but not quite able to make it there, till he wraps one hand around your throat and with seemingly the last bit of energy he can muster squeezes and moans, “Come for me, you fucking slut.”

You see stars as you come, clenching around him, shuddering and moaning his name, and keep riding him like your life depends on it, which it kind of does. You feel so overstimulated but you’ve never felt this good in your life. You’re so determined to make him feel good. He’s alternately pressing into the hollow of your throat with his thumb and stroking the soft skin on your neck as you ride him. Your eyes are half-lidded as you come a second time, shaking, almost screaming. Finally, he starts fucking up into you, absolutely destroying you, and you feel so close to the edge a third time. You seize fistfuls of his hair and tell him exactly what you need.

“Come inside me,” you groan with everything you can muster, and he loosens his grip on your throat as he does so, shuddering, thrusting inside you with the most ferocity you’ve felt from him yet. The blissful, desperate expression on his face sends you over the edge a third time, with a scream.

You absolutely black out after that, or maybe only partially; all you know is that you can’t move. A while after, you feel him slide out of you and get up from under you. You’re left naked on the cold chair, and with your eyes closed, you briefly wonder if he’s going to just leave you like this.

You almost drift off again, for an undefinable length of time, and then you feel something sharp against your wrist. You half-open your eyes to see him cutting the rope away from your wrists and smoothing over the angry red marks, almost apologetically. The only thing he’s wearing are his patterned pants he walked into the room with.

He dresses you like an invalid-kind of, putting only underwear and his own shirt on you, and then he pick you up bridal-style and carries you out of the room. You lose consciousness while you’re being carried, but wake again to find yourself in some kind of smarmy hotel boudoir, laying on the bed, watching him comb and style his hair and wash the cum out of his mustache. He’s dressed in a different tacky patterned suit, with a different pimp shirt buttoned half open to reveal his chest.

“Daddy has to go to work,” he says nonchalantly, glancing at you from the mirror and giving you his trademark smirk, “but when I come back, we’re gonna have a few things to talk about.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you esp to my (kinda) betas, oli n hadley, and the group chat for not kinkshaming


End file.
